


Goat Omens: the Nice and Reverse Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch

by gemstone_wings



Series: Goat Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is Raphael, Demon!Aziraphale, Hadestown References, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, goat!aziraphale, reversed omens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2020-12-31 20:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemstone_wings/pseuds/gemstone_wings
Summary: Demon Zera, Goat of Eden, didn't technically mean to tempt Eve, but- well. No use not taking credit, especially since there's one potential Prince of Hell without anyone to take the position.Enter Raphael, Archangel of lovers, healing, and shepherds, assigned to spend some time with the new humans in hopes that it will help him recover from the War-in-Heaven, and the pair find themselves on Earth, together.





	1. Eden, 4004 BCE

**Author's Note:**

> like stupid adam and eve  
they found their love in a tree  
god didn’t think they deserved it  
he taught them hate taught them pride  
gave them a leaf made them hide  
let’s push their stories aside  
you know the origin is you  
—origin of love, MIKA

Eden, 4004 BCE

He stood on a huge, sun-fervid pile of rocks tumbling near Eden’s wall, just high enough that the wind whistled quietly as it tangled around the feathers in his huge black wings. Soft hoofbeats _ clack-clacked _behind him as he watched the creatures of Eden disappear over the dunes. There were only three lingering within view of the Garden— a leonine creature, a quite pregnant Eve, and Adam, carrying a flaming sword that flickered with blasphemy. His eyes, blank orbs that glowed with the same white-forge iron light as the sword, did not blink.

The ringing of hoof on stone stopped as a goat, ash-brown spots on white, stopped beside him.

“Well,” said the Archangel Raphael to the goat. “That went down like a lead balloon.”

“A what?” said the goat, popping into a man-shape.

“A lead balloon.” Raphael turned. Stubby horns peeked out of curly hair, coarse light hair streaked with grey. Wide eyes, horizontal hell-black slits slicing the heaven-blue firmament of his eyes in two. Stubby wings, the size and shape and colour of those belonging to the bird Adam had named ‘swan.’

_ Beautiful. _

_ Demon. _

“Your fault, I suppose?” Raphael juts his chin at the two humans struggling across the sand. 

“Well.” He looks away. “Technically, yes, I suppose.”

“Technically?” 

“It was an accident!” Raphael’s breath was shoved out of his lungs by the intensity of the demon’s eyes, turned back to him like a spotlight, a searchlight, a question framed as something unexisting. He miracled air back, inhaling like a canary in a mine.

“An accident! How do you accidentally bring about the fall of mankind?” 

“I didn’t know it was that tree! I was just- she looked so hungry, and I’d picked an apple earlier but I hadn’t eaten it yet and the next thing I know there’s light everywhere and booming voices and I can suddenly see everrrrything—” His words tumbled bleating into river-rushing dismay. “I think She did something to my eyes.” His eyes had indeed been changed, though not by me. Lots of things involving that particular demon had nothing to do with me.

Raphael gently tapped the demon’s chin, turning his face back to face him, peering deep into his eyes. If he’s not careful, he thought, these eyes will drag him down to Hell. If he’s not careful, he thought, he will follow these eyes to Hell. 

“Yeah, your pupils are sort of— rectangular,” he said, like they hadn’t branded themselves across what would be the split between the halves of his brain, if he’d had a human brain. 

_ Demon. _

_ He’s beautiful. _

_ He’s a demon, a corrupted being of evil, incapable of feeling love or anything besides the most base of emotions. _

_ And you’re staring. _

Raphael looked away. “They’re— striking.”

Adam and the lion were exchanging blows, raining golden heaven-fire on slashing claws, silver as roaring water. Raphael didn’t see who struck first. “You’d think the Almighty would have put a sign up or something.”

“Yes,” sighed the demon. “Well, nothing to be done for it now. Besides, I can’t imagine She’d want her crown creations stuck in Eden forever. She must have a Plan, even if we don’t understand it.” He looked down, his hands twisting nervously around themselves, the rings he wore clacking against each other in silver and gold. “I’m just worried I did the right thing.” 

The horizon was darkening, clouds writhing against the sand.

“Hey.” Black robes breathed of velvet and silk and burlap and camelhair ache, the colours wrong in a way like Raphael’s white robes felt— off, like bones and dark soil and cream and shadows, as Raphael put his hand on the demon’s shoulder. “You’re a demon. I don’t think you can do the right thing. And besides, if you can do the right thing, then I must have done the wrong thing because I don’t think I was supposed to give away my sword.” He shrugged. “All balances out.”

“You gave away your sword!”  
“Yeah,” he drawled. “I don’t need it. Besides, she looked cold, and loads more pregnant than you’d think. It wasn’t _that _long ago she ate the apple.”

There was a _shrrnk_ noise, so quiet and distant that no non-ethereal(or occult) beings would have been able to hear, as Adam drew the sword out of the lion’s chest, heaven-metal scraping across bone, like a needle punching fabric and coming out with a thread of life joined streaming through its all-seeing eye.  
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the demon said with a wry smile. “A nice angel.” He hadn’t seen the lion fall, hadn’t heard its death.

“Oi, shut up,” said Raphael, smiling as well, sharp as a wooden sword, wrenching his eyes away from the corpse. “I don’t even know why they gave me a sword- I’m no Principality, no protector. I mostly just made stars.”

“You’rrre an archangel?!” the demon bleated, his knees locked and muscles tensed subtly in sudden surprise, balance thrown. 

_ Yes. _

“No! Just a sort of... under-angel. Nothing special.”

Raphael was regarded warily for a long moment, tentative trust shivering on the edge of Raphael’s lie. He stood perfectly still, aware of something undefinable hanging in balance, something that could leave him red and raw and smiling. 

The scale tipped, the universe exhaled, and the demon smiled cautiously, half to himself and half to Raphael. “That’s alright then.”

In the distance, thunder rumbled, a tolling of bells, a recording of fate, a sealing of things-to-be. “Looks like a storm’s coming.” Fat drops of rain pattered on the sand outside the limits of Eden. The demon extended one stubby wing, arching out like a prayer, not nearly enough to reach Raphael, the world’s first umbrella that didn’t quite open right.

“Here, let me,” said Raphael. “What’s your name?” he asked, iron black wings extending with a rustle.

“Hmmm? Oh, Zera,” said the demon.

_ Zera. _A name echoed like a ghost on Raphael’s lips, reverberating across his soul like a thousand secret chords, as rich and indulgent and forbidden as pomegranate wine.

_ Aziraphale. _

_ A. _

_ Zera. _

** _Fell_ ** _ . _

A hundred memories glowing with white light, blazing too fast to be realized, shadows half-seen beneath the ice. Perhaps they will teach you the secrets of the deep, grant your wildest dreams, a siren song. Perhaps they will drag you under, teeth and freezing water catching on your bones, resting out the winter of nonexistence among the fishes and frogs, staying warm in the mud.

And then, like a melody you can barely remember not knowing, they were gone.

“And you are?”

He could say Raphael. There has only ever been one Raphael, only ever been so many Archangels, and while Raphael was the most reclusive of them all, his name was still branded across the billboards of Heaven. (Billboards had been invented by Heaven, but once Hell got a hold of them, Heaven had washed their hands of the whole business.)

From Eden, there was a hoarse _cghaahhh_. Raphael smiled. Corvids had been one of his, and he was rather proud of the creatures.  
“Crowley. For my wings.” He flicked his fingers at his wings, his dark coverts and primaries, the inky scapulars and his alula, the colour of the space between stars.

Zera bowed a little, a sort of head-bobbing affair accompanied by hand twirling that would be pretentious on anyone else. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, the Nice (and Not-an-Arch) Angel Crowley.” 

“Likewise, Demon Zera. Or rather, not nice.” The newly-named Crowley winked one of his tiny star eyes. “Demon and all.” 

When Crowley fell, he fell in spite of himself. He fell _ in love. _  



	2. The First Arrangements, 4004 BCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zera and Crowley lie to their superiors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be that hopeful feeling when Eden was lost  
it’s been deaf to our laughter since the master was crossed  
which side of the wall really suffers that cost?  
oh, lover, be good to me  
—be, hozier

The rain had eventually pattered, as all things do eventually, to an end. Crowley— whoever he really was, and whatever reasons he had for concealing his identity, which Zera had seen through like a fish through water— had drawn their easy conversation to a close, stepping a respectful distance away and shaking the water from his wings like a wet dog. He turned to look back at Zera as he shook the sky with thunder again with his giant wings, his face pale and shining like lightning on the moon, his white robes and dark blue sash flickering and flapping in the wind, and then he was gone, disappearing behind a pillar in a cloudy cathedral.  
Zera watched him go, carefully stilling his heartbeat and pulling the breath out of his lungs like a spine from a fish. He’d gotten almost used to the motions of humanity.   
There was a sudden dryness to the air, something cracking along Zera’s skin like fire on paper, like the bitter stillness before a storm rips across the dark plains of empty land.   
DEMON ZERA, said a voice, quietly roaring in Zera’s skull. It was everywhere and nowhere at once, like a wave— can you point to the sea and ask where is the white horse, that swell of water, stretching past the horizon? No. You can only flap your hand and say over there, over there, over there. And so was the voice. And so was the thing that released in Zera, a tide crashing, beaten again and again into the sand by the inexorable and mysterious forces of the moon— the dashing of a dream-bubble in the wake of the sea. The realization of reality; of what must be.   
WERE YOU RESPONSIBLE FOR THE EXILE OF ADAM AND EVE FROM THE GARDEN.  
“Yes, Lord. I lied—” am lying, to you— “to Eve. She believed me when I told her that a fruit from the Forbidden Tree was a normal apple, leading to Eve and her husband Adam to be forced from the Garden.” He lifted his chin, clasping his hands behind his back, a golden ring he’d somehow kept hold of in the vying and jockeying of Hell warm against his fourth finger. Well. Every great lie came from a seed of truth.  
WELL DONE, DEMON ZERA. THERE MAY BE A PROMOTION IN YOUR FUTURE— I HAVE BEEN THINKING WE NEED ANOTHER DUKE OF HELL.  
Duke of Hell. A promotion like that would be perfect— no need for the endless petty squabbles with any demon that was having a bad day and felt like taking it out on a passing demon. Sure, Zera was ridiculously strong, as he’d found when he simply pulled a brick of the wall out and climbed through, but the brief, dizzy scramble of gnashing teeth, screaming and writhing and desperately pounding at the heart of survival, survival, survival, let me survive this that he’d witnessed before fleeing Hell was not something he wanted to ever clamber through again. And yet.  
“Er, Your— Evil-ence, I was thinking- might I instead stay here? As a sort of— field agent, on Earrth?” Oh. He hadn’t planned to say that. He’d planned to live out the rest of existence as comfortably as one could in Hell, relatively safe. He hadn’t thought there were any other options. And yet.  
Somewhere, a bird that hadn’t yet left Eden started singing, warbling higher and higher, like a petition of joy to the world. Zera had screwed with God’s Great Plan, gotten the humans tossed out, which, whatever he told Satan, he hadn’t meant to do, and yet, the bird was singing, sounding like rushing water in the air. A cloud shifted in the sky, the one Zera thought Crowley had flown through, now less a cathedral and now a hobbled hovel, three nails away from falling down. And the sun, shining like Crowley’s eyes— don’t think about the angel, not now— rubbed down his black robes, warm and comfortable. (This moment would be the inspiration for Zera’s invention of sleeping through an alarm, or a shouting mother, because of a warm bed, several centuries later, the temptation to simply not get up overwhelmingly heavy on the eyes. Why get up, face the cold hard world, when you could remain tightly wrapped in dreamfibres of your own making, your own body heat rocking you to sleep? Belphegor, the demon of sloth, claimed it was his idea, with absolutely no success. He was a terrible liar.)  
There were the other Dukes to consider— fewer opponents, but stronger, faster, sometimes smarter ones, the few who had proved themselves even before the world really and properly began. And the responsibilities— as a Duke he’d be expected to do all sorts of unsavoury things, and if the world God had planned was anything like Eden, he could either sit and rule from the dark and dank and unpleasant heat of Hell, or he could stay up above on Earth. Demons didn’t strictly need to eat, but oh, the variety of fruits alone in the garden! Pomegranates, pears, citrus, berries of every shape and size and flavour.   
And, of course, there was the apple. Nothing Zera had eaten in Eden was quite like it. The tight skin, bracing against teeth, bending like soap on water, surface tension spooling rapidly, and then the sharp sinking in, crushing and cutting into crisp white flesh. The greedy first bite, disrespectfully clean, flaunting their tidy self-contained blood, staying neatly in line. And of course— temptation is not merely the object, but the prohibition, the twist of irresistibility, the thing just barely within reach.  
STAY ON EARTH? WHY WOULD ANY SELF-RESPECTING DEMON TURN DOWN A PRINCESHIP OF HELL FOR EARTH?  
“The humans, they’re fascinating. I want to be involved in their— ah— development.” His throat worked slightly, like a swallowed taboo toadstool, dancing on the edge of danger. Take a bite, pray, hope that your favour with God is great enough to turn the soft white flesh(and there was the angel, flying away into the dying storm, rising unbeckoned in Zera’s mind), coming undone under your sharp flashing white teeth, to manna in your throat. “And there’s an angel,” he said.  
AN ANGEL?  
“Yes.” Wrench your mind away from the sleepy bed, the warmly crooked finger around your wrist. Some things cannot be left for another time— due now, do now, rise with the dew forming on the grass. “There’s an angel who came to talk to me.” More or less. “After Adam and Eve were sent away. And— well, he was a guardian of one of the gates! I was expecting a smiting at least, but— well. He showed signs of rebellion— there’s plenty of material for an enterprising demon to potentially trip an angel if you know what I mean.” Zera bobbed his head a few times. “Make them Fall,” he explained. He bit his lip, once, hard enough to draw bitter iron blood, swirling gold and black in his mouth, and then continued in a whisper. “I have reason to suspect he might be very high up. It would, of course, be only a side project to tempting the humans and their descendants, but imagine the possible impact on Heaven’s morale—”  
VERY WELL. BE CAREFUL. DO NOT LET HIM KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING. BE SUBTLE. AND KEEP THIS ANGEL A SIDE PROJECT ONLY.  
“Of course! Of course. I won’t fail you in this, Lord.”  
SEE TO IT THAT YOU DON’T. YOU KNOW WHAT THE CONSEQUENCES WOULD BE.   
Zera bowed. “Of course, of course.”  
OH, AND BEFORE I GO, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYES?   
Zera involuntarily reached up, fingers trembling and brushing gently over his face. “God did,” he said, softly as the fragile human skin under his eyes.  
AH. REMEMBER WHAT SHE DOES, DEMON ZERA. THERE IS NOTHING BUT BETRAYAL FROM HEAVEN. DO NOT TRUST ANY OF HER AGENTS.  
And then the stillness of the air was gone like a sullen presence had been sucked out of reality through some giant immaterial straw.   
Zera had heard something when his vision had splintered and cracked along the seams, like a line drawn in the sand, a wall keeping him out of the good and right and wonderful. They hadn’t made sense at the time, a shard of divinity stabbed through his skull at his most vulnerable, clear and undefinable throbbing edges of judgement. Now, with the sand shifting and revealing underneath some relic of a time past remembering, he was beginning to decipher the hieroglyphs banging on his mind.   
BECAUSE YOU HAVE DONE THIS, she had said, YOU ARE CURSED ABOVE ALL SERPENTS, AND ABOVE EVERY CREEPING THING, AND WILL EAT WASTE FOR ALL YOUR DAYS. BUT THERE WILL BE ENMITY BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR KIND, AND SO I WILL PUT A PROTECTION UPON YOU, THAT YOUR EYES MIGHT SEE, AND THAT YOUR HEART MIGHT BE OPENED. GOOD LUCK, DEMON ZERA.  
Something to think upon, perhaps, along with his new and mostly accidental position.

—

Meanwhile, in an expanse of heaven currently covered in renovation signs and canvas covers, rubble and strange, metallic smears, Raphael was shaking the metaphorical rain off his wings. He wasn’t actually inhabiting his physical body at the moment, having left it behind in a crag of stone not far from where Eve and Adam had settled, but the spiritual route to Heaven included a huge labyrinth of wind, thick with metaphysical rain clouds. “Hiya, Uriel,” he said, smiling. “Hello, Gabe, Michael. Sandal man.”  
“It’s Sandalphon and you know it.” Raphael just grinned at him, flaunting sharp, sheer canines.  
“Praise God, Raphael,” broke in Gabriel. “What exactly are you doing here? Why are you not guarding the Eastern Gate of Eden?” He cocked his head, unblinking. “You did specifically request that you be stationed there, Raphael. Because—”   
“I know, I know what I said.” He pressed the pads of his palms into his eyelids. “And don’t worry, Eden is fine. There’s a big, scary pack of wolves hanging around and there’s no way for Adam and Eve to get in, even if they wanted to—”  
“Raphael?”  
“They seemed pretty preoccupied, if you ask me, preparing for Eve’s birthing— you know, she’s almost to term—”  
“Raphael.”   
“What.”  
“Where is your flaming sword?”   
Raphael blinked, shifted his weight from heel to ball of foot and back, breathing slowly. He didn’t need to breathe, either in his physical body or not, but spending over a week with beings who did need it had gotten him into the habit.   
Arrayed facing him, the other archangels, rooted like stone pillars, stood motionless, still as puppets hanging from thread, waiting to be thrust into motion. Raphael swallowed, licked his lips. Michael checked her nails, splaying her hand briefly and then swinging the hangnail-killing gaze of prepared judgement straight up at Raphael. Sandalphon glared. Uriel bobbed her head, encouraging him to continue. Gabriel stared, unblinking, like an eagle from on high.  
“If you must know, Adam has it. Well, Eve might, which, as her doctor, I would strongly advise against because she’s— well, pregnant,” he bobbed his head, “but she doesn’t exactly have a track record of doing what she’s told. So if the little baby human comes out with a propensity for pyrotechnics or knife throwing or something equally dangerous I suppose you can blame me—”  
“Raphael.”  
“What! I know exactly where it is, and I’ll be right back down to get it!”  
“This is why we were hesitant about assigning you to Eden. You spent about how long? A week? down there and you’ve already handed over a holy weapon? Raphael. Look, I know that after the War—”   
“Gabe. I know.” He flapped his hands in concession, idly and rapidly tapping his foot on the shining alabaster floor. “Not— not ideal. But there was something I had to talk to you guys about, you know, policy decisions and stuff, and I had to make sure they weren’t defenceless if the demon showed up again—”   
“The demon!”   
“You didn’t smite it!”  
“Shhh.” He swung around, closing his hands on their words. “Nope. Nope. Uh-uh. Let me talk. Yes, there’s a demon. I was getting to that part. See, responsible. No, Michael, I’m not in the habit of smiting every little thing that comes my way without first checking if it’s going to attack me. What’s the good of a healer that just— attacks? Isn’t the point of healing to undo harm, not cause it? Do no harm or something? Ooh, that’s good. Do no harm. Might use that for something. Do no harm, speak no harm, see no harm. Hear no harm. No. That’s the thing with the— the— hairy human things.”  
“Raphael.” Gabriel looked pointedly at Raphael’s foot,   
“Right, right. First, I want to stay, on Earth, and watch over the humans. All the way until the end, whenever that is. Not important right now. I want to be permanently assigned to Earth.” Gabriel screwed up his face, squinting at Raphael, and then shrugged.  
“Fine.”  
“Now, I know that— what?”  
“If you really think you can handle it, after all that’s happened. It would do you good to spend a little time out of the office. A sort of working vacation. You’re so pale! Spend some time in the sun. Not that it’ll do anything. I mean, we’re angels.” He clapped Raphael on the arm, hard enough to hurt. Raphael could it vibrating through his hollow, hallowed soul bones, the structure of his spirit, and it was only with the strength of an angel that they didn’t shatter within his skin. Gabriel chortled at his own joke.  
“Ha,” said Raphael, uncertainly. Do no harm, he thought. Ouch.  
“See? Funny. But really. You look like a bone. Not really a proper appearance for one of the Lord’s angels.”  
“Oh. Alright.”  
“And the demon?”  
“The— yes, right, the demon. Well, he— it— didn’t behave much like a demon, for one. Didn’t seem to want much to do with Hell. The Other Side. Anyway. That’s the second thing. I was thinking that it could be sort of an experiment. See if there could be a— what do you even call reverse Falling? Flying? Rising?”  
“Raphael, that could be very... risky. What with the state you’re in, and demons are very wily creatures. I’m not sure that it’s a good idea.”  
“Come on, Gabriel, what’s the harm it could do?”  
“Well, there are only five angels of the First Host still in Heaven, us five archangels. Clearly, we have some purpose in God’s plan that we must fulfil—”   
“Exactly! What if mine is to Raise fallen angels? Bring them back to the Fold somehow? I’m the Healer, for Heaven’s sake,” he said, flaring his wings behind him. “And if I can heal them, show them the light—”  
“As I was going to say, fulfil as leaders in the End Times, when the Horsemen of the Apocalypse ride and we go to war against Hell. Your healing role will be incredibly important then. And if you were to Fall, well, that would certainly not ‘do no harm.’” Raphael’s huge dark wings rustled as they folded and crumpled together, feathers and muscle and sinew heavily thumping closed.  
“I think it’s a good idea.”  
Four heads swivelled toward Uriel.  
“Thank you.” Raphael smiled at Uriel, and Uriel smiled hesitantly back, glancing in Gabriel’s direction.  
“It’s a stupid idea, and you’re an idiot for suggesting it.”  
“Yeah, thanks, Sandalphon. Oh! Monkeys!” he exclaimed, snapping. “That’s what the whole ‘see no evil’ thing’s with.”  
“I have to agree with Sandalphon. It’s hasty and rash and foolish.”  
“I appreciate it, Michael.”  
“Two to two.”  
“It’ll help me bring human souls, too, to see what the Enemy can do firsthand to try and tempt them. Please, Gabriel. You can— I don’t know, check in on me every so often, make sure I’m not about to Fall.”  
“Those angels who Fell did report having warmer wings. Almost every single case,” added Uriel. She turned to Gabriel, voice softening. “Even Lucifer. I don’t like the idea of him falling any more than you do— we lost too many angels in the War— but if we let Raphael make this choice, take a little bit of controlled risk, and we check in on him, make sure he’s doing alright, then he could help all of the rest of us. By getting this one demon to trust him, he can learn all sorts of things a demon can do, all their underhanded tricks and ways that they could try and hurt other angels. He could learn their weaknesses.” Her voice hardened. “So that, in the final war, we can protect as many of our own as possible.”   
Raphael didn’t say anything. He must have gotten used to having a stomach, or something like it, because the space where he’d had one was quietly flip-flopping at the idea of the archangels, servants of the Lord, only remaining of the First Host, planning to orchestrate an extended lie, to take advantage of Zera. He’s a demon, he reminded himself. A double-dealing demon who specialized in deceiving the unwary. Or maybe he already had, crawling back into Hell and brandishing his triumphs— trick the first people ever, get them kicked out of paradise, lie to a God-blesséd archangel about it.   
One thing was for sure. Backstabbing, treacherous, slightly and oddly familiar goat or not, Raphael had to see him again.  
Gabriel sighed and held out his hand to shake. “We will be checking in, often, to make sure that there’s no change. Is that clear, Raphael?”  
“Got it,” said Raphael with a smile, taking Gabriel’s large, sweaty hand and shaking it once. He let go of his hand, discreetly wiped the sweat off his hand onto his robe, and turned to leave, sauntering over to one of the giant glassless windows spanning the wall. “Oh,” he said over his shoulder. “And one more thing— when I’m on Earth, I’ll need you to call me Crowley. I was careful not to reveal my true identity to the demon. So that he— it— wouldn’t try to con Heaven’s secrets out of me.”  
“Raphael...”  
“You shook on it.’ Crowley smiled wolfishly and spread his wings wide with a whump. “Anyway, toodle-oo.” He grimaced. “Blech, not saying that again. Gotta go check in on Adam and Eve and the little fetus.” He paused again, hand on the frame. “Gabriel. Don’t worry about a thing.” And then Crowley lept through the opening out into the endless white sky of Heaven, black robes moving like rain from a heavy cloud.  
“Crowley,” said Gabriel, watching as he soared quickly out of view. “What a ridiculous name. What’s wrong with Raphael?” The other angels glanced at each other shrugged.   
“I worry about him.”  
Gabriel nodded slowly. “So do I, Michael. So do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry about not posting last week— I had an essay sprung rather unexpectedly on me. Have an extra-long chapter instead!  
Come visit me on Tumblr! @gemstone-wings.  
A note on Choirs/Hosts— a Host is a generation of angels and a Choir is the type of angel, with Gabriel, Uriel, Michael, and Raphael being the only angels belonging to the First Host who did not either Fall or die in the War of Heaven, who all happen to belong to the Choir of archangels. Sandalphon is a Second Host archangel who proved himself in the War of Heaven.   
Fun facts— Belphegor is the demon of sloth, and “do no harm” is not actually from the Hippocratic oath, but from Hippocrates’s Of the Epidemics.


	3. Mesopotamia, 3004 BCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have faith but don't believe it  
it's not there enough to leave it  
everything I love is on the table  
everything I love is out to sea  
—don't swallow the cap, the nationals
> 
> pronouns—  
zera he/him  
crowley they/them

Crowley pushed their way through There were sparks of divine wrath(ozone and bitter almonds) crackling on the horizon, the death rattle of desert grass ringing. Despite the noise of the animals and the gawkers crowded around Noah’s giant boat, the chatter of children as they played with goats and chickens and all sorts of creatures great and small, it was still, not a breath of wind. It  _ smelt _ hot. “Hello, Zera,” said Crowley. They tapped one shoulder, then popped around, grinning when Zera whipped his head around to find Crowley.

“Crowley,” said Zera, having turned to the left, then the right, scowling at Crowley’s trick. “That wasn’t funny.”

“‘Course it was, you old goat. Not my fault demons don’t have a sense of humour.” Crowley folded their arms, resting them on Zera’s shoulder. “Nice robe, by the way. Suits you.” There was sand in their sandals. Crowley tapped one foot on his leg, shifting in the hot air.

“Yes, thank you. Er, yours too.” In Eden, Zera had worn coal silk hell-robes, ragged and ashy, singed around the edges like a partially burned log found in a fire pit after a rainstorm. Now, his clothes were linen, flowing like a bank around a swollen river, and beaded red around the edges, a splash of pomegranate blood. 

Crowley stroked the fringe of their sleek black shawl, a shield against expectations. No one expects an archangel to wear black, and certainly not something so like a fire, flowing and flickering, not entirely matter but with a certain bite anyways, a hint of blue breathed underneath like the navy heart of the flame. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it.” They looked up abruptly, smirking.

Zera was staring at Crowley’s hands, strangely enraptured.

Behind them, an array of animals not seen since Eden crawled and stalked and slithered and flew, and Zera stared at Crowley’s hands. 

There was something wild and flighty in Zera’s eyes. There was something bright in Crowley’s, like sitting near a campfire and feeling your skin stiffen slowly with heat. 

Neither of them breathed, for a moment. Of course, of course of course of course, they didn’t need to, as has been said again and again and again. And yet, after a thousand years— even after a week- their bodies still caught the motion with a rope, a noose, woven of habit. A game of chicken, with the rules written in a conlang so perfect as to be incomprehensible. Do you trust your nerve? Do you listen to the screaming of your instincts, rolling and boiling in your gut, the banshee-shriek hammering on your fragile steel-string neurons, trusting that your body, that vessel of the spirit, will move out from under that great steaming death machine? Do you pray that the other poor souls frozen by pride on the railway will move, watching as your death inches closer?

There was something of that toying with something headily dangerous, something of the hastening of the inevitable in his boxed-in pupils, and their burning stars. Crowley unconsciously took a small patch of fabric, a fingerful of soft white threads, between their fingers, rubbing like horsehair on strings, a melody to the beat of a strangely pounding heart. It was, after all, only the enemy.

Demons, as a general rule, did not say please. They did not ask. They took what they wanted, consequences be damned, pun intended. (Puns would be an invention of Crowley’s, as part of the Arrangement some millennia later.) And they definitely did not say  _ thank you, _ or anything that veered into the vicinity of  _ gratitude. _

Zera, as a general rule, was not like most demons. 

Angels, as a general rule, did not listen much to ‘please.’ They were technically, in theory, all for manners and respect, but in practice, they tended to just roll over anyone who stood in the way of their righteous, divinely mandated will. 

Crowley, as a general rule, was not like most angels either.

So when Zera startled out from under their arms, Crowley let him go.

“Er, that flaming sword you had,” said Zera, stumbling onto something to talk about besides the way their lines of sight had lain heavy on each other, soft as nooses. “Has the Almighty ever mentioned it?” 

It was a dance that the two of them would grow familiar with over the ages-  _ slow down, dearest. You’ll get hurt, you’ll be taken away. I can’t match your speed yet, don’t wait for me.  _ A pause and a bow, and then an  _ as you wish. anything for you. _

There was sand in Crowley’s sandals.

“Not at all. Neither has any of the angels. So far, I’d say it’s worked out pretty well for me.” 

“Probably for the better.” Zera paused, almost apologetic, and Crowley circled around him like the tides do the moon, the moon does the earth, and then the earth, cycling around the sun, reflected in the waves, lighting the seafoam aflame. Right, then left. _ “ _ I’ve heard a lot about this Noah and his ark. What’s it actually all about? Build a big boat and have some kind of travelling zoo? Spread wonder at Her creations or something?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you. Demon and all, orders from Heaven.” Crowley leaned in with the sad emptysmile of an old gossip, lit only slightly with news of ruined lives, Zera’s face reflecting the light of Crowley’s eyes like a moon. “Someone’s a bit pissed off from what I’ve heard, gonna wipe out everyone and start again.” Crowley wasn’t smiling anymore, reminded of their ill tidings. They sighed. “Big storm, biggest storm there’s ever been.” 

Left, then right.

“All of the humans?”  
“Nah, just— just the locals,” they said, shaking their head like a flea-ridden dog. “The Australians will probably be fine, and the Native Americans, and the Chinese.”

“At the moment, though?”

“At the moment, for the foreseeable future, yes.”

“But Noah and his family will be fine, yes? His sons, their wives and children? They’ll all be safe in their ark.”

“They’re drowning everybody else.”

A few children run past- a boy and two girls, ragged and unashamedly grubby, racing and splashing through puddles, laughing like magpies. “Not...”

Crowley’s voice was weighted with the existence of a thousand years, walking among corpses not yet rotted. In the beginning, neither of them had learned not to get attached. “They’re killing the kids, yes.”

“But that’s something you’d expect _ my _ side to do.”

“That’s what I said!” exclaimed Crowley, lowering their voice when they drew a few gazes. “‘Not the kids,’ I told Gabriel. ‘You can’t kill kids.’” they chewed on their lip, catching it with their sharp teeth. “I shouldn’t have told you that.” _Dangerous territory_, a voice in their head said. _Criticizing the Almighty. _“They’ve promised that the Almighty won’t ever do it again, though. There’s going to be this new thing called a _rainbow,_ up in the sky, to promise not to drown everyone again.” _Oh, to Hell with it. Me. The Mesopotamians. Whatever._ There were worse things than an archangel Falling, things like the death of those tainted by the sins of their parents. “No promises about burning, or earthquaking, or sending— plagues of locusts or famines or anything.” There was _still sand_ in Crowley’s sandals, tiny grains wriggling their way into the fibres.

“I’m sure God has a plan. She wouldn’t just kill off all the humans, point blank, would She? We can’t judge the Almighty. Her Plan...”

“Aren’t you the Fallen one? Shouldn’t I be blindly following and you asking the questions?” They were sardonic, tongue like a viper, twice as bitter and triple as sweet.

“I didn’t Fall for asking questions, dear boy.” And before Crowley could begin to wonder what such a beautiful being had done to be cast from the most perfect source of love, before they could begin to process the implications of them thinking a demon  _ beautiful, _ Zera continued, like he wanted to leave it all locked below the dust. “Oh, Shem, that unicorn! Watch out, it’s getting away! Oh, dear, too late...”

“Well, they’ve still got one of them,” they said, instead of all the questions they wanted to ask.

They say that rain is God’s tears. This is not in fact true. Most of the time. The grubby children who caught rain in their mouths would huddle against a black-clad star and tell them that the rain tasted  _ salty, _ and that dark star would stare into the sky as they hugged the children to their side and told them not to get too close to the water. 

Not that, of course, an archangel of the Lord would actually save anyone who had been dropped by Her hands, would build a dam around the damned and stretch out their hand over the sea of rage and divide it around Her cast-out children. 

No. All the children, they reported, all the people were dead, drowned in the deep, hungry waters, standing still while Gabriel jammed his fingers through their feathers, trying to gauge if their wings were any warmer. And when Gabriel clapped them on the shoulder and, in his too-loud voice, pronounced them all clear, there was no reason that Crowley felt relieved. Of course. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you noticed anywhere I messed up the pronouns, please tell me so I can correct it.  
Come visit me on tumblr @gemstone-wings!  
Sorry that the formatting on this chapter was so wonky. I've fixed it.


	4. Thessaly, 2200 BCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is charged with making sure that a Grecian king marries a princess, and it turns out Zera was too. Shenanigans ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at you, strawberry blond  
Fields rolling on  
I love it when you call my name  
Can you hear the bumblebees swarm?  
Watching your arm  
I love it when you look my way  
-Strawberry Blond, Mitski

“King Admetus,” said Crowley, his voice echoing. The few people, scattered in small groups around the hall, all turned to look and kept turning as soon as they saw his eyes. Sure, brightly lit areas were hell to see in, and there were times when the strain and heat of it all started clawing at the inside of his sockets, beating on his skull and wailing like a banshee with an end in sight, but literally having stars in his eyes did come with  _ some  _ perks.

“Apollon,” said Admetus, dropping off his modest throne, more of a glorified chair really, and flopping into a reverent position sprawled on the floor. “I had no idea you were here. Forgive me for not preparing a welcome feast. I’ll call the servants immediately—”

“Let’s not do that quite yet.” The gathered nobles, too polite to gawk openly, snuck glances in his direction as he gingerly pulled Admetus to his feet, taking care to speak more quietly.

“You’re... not offended, Lord Apollon?” said, bright with idolatry, and taking Crowley’s offered hand.   
“No, no, not a jot of offence taken here. Look, I’m actually here on,” he gestured vaguely upwards, “business. I’ve got to help out a mortal for a year, just you know, rake some leaves, harness a chariot or two, I dunno, help win a princess’s hand. Whatever you need.”

“Oh, but of course, Lord. I would be honoured to help you however you needed.” Admetus said, loudly. A couple of the newer courtiers briefly jerked where they stood, barely remembering not to look soon enough to plausibly turn the aborted ogling into a cough or a head scratch.

“Shh!” he hissed. “Look, this doesn’t work if you keep calling me lord. I have to serve you, not the other way around.”

“Of course, L— Apollon.” Admetus bowed again, speaking quietly. “Is this— and forgive me if I overstep, but is this a punishment from...?” He glanced to the sky and pointed up, trailing off.

“Yeah, something like that,” he sighed, taking Admetus’s arm and gesturing for him to lead the way out of the central hall. “Could we discuss this somewhere more private, perhaps?”

“Of course, Lord— Apollon.” Admetus’s arm prickled with gooseflesh under Crowley’s, and Crowley supposed that “I suppose I do need some help with my flocks. You see, lately, the cows haven’t been birthing as many calves as usual...”

This, thought Crowley, was going to be a very long year. 

—

“Here,” he panted, scrabbling over a rock, the stone crumbling under his hands. “Come to Crowley, you ridiculous, beastly—” he tripped on a stone as the goat he was chasing darted off in the direction of a sheerer area that Crowley knew he would not be able to climb without his wings. 

“No! No, I didn’t mean it, you’re a wonderful creature just  _ don’t go that way or I’m going to leave you on this God-forsaken mountain _ and hope the wolves get you—” He paused for breath, chest heaving, and then started off again. “You know, you remind me of someone I know. An old friend— looked just like you. Stubborn like you, too. A real demon, if you know what I mean.” Damnit, he thought. The goat practically flew up and over a pile of rocks at least as tall as Crowley at it’s highest point. He groaned. “Oh, you just  _ had  _ to go up there—!” 

With a miracle, he clambered up to the top. ”Something else you’ve got in common!” he grumbled as he dropped over the rock’s side. “You’re both  _ pains _ in the— oh. Hallo Zera.”

Zera, human formed, was sitting primly on a rock, face pinched in polite anger, and possibly, if Crowley’s two thousand years of on and off experience were right the barest, well-buried worry. Crowley bent over, holding his thighs and gulping air.

Zera marched over to Crowley, pulled him upright, and shoved his finger lightly into Crowley’s chest, tightly wound and barely touching. “What the  _ Heaven _ are you doing here?”

“Hang on,” panted Crowley, holding up his own finger. “Let me catch my breath.”

“You don’t have to breathe.”

“Good point.” Crowley paused and miracled oxygen back into his bloodstream, which, strictly speaking, wasn’t necessary either. “Oof,  _ oxygen rush! _ You lead me on a merry goat chase. You realize I’m going to have to go back down, without my wings?”

Zera was unmoved, every line of his soft body tense. “What are you doing here, of all the places in the world?

“Assignment? From Heaven? What are you doing here, old goat?” He batted at Zera’s finger, still grounded in Crowley’s sternum.

Zera stepped abruptly away and crossed his arms. “I don’t know, what are you doing?”

“I just told you!” Crowley squawked indignantly. “The local ruler—”

“King Admetus?”

“Yeah, that one. He’s supposed to marry some princess with an impossible bride price, and I’m supposed to help him but  _ he’s  _ supposed to ask for help. You know what he did instead? He asked me to watch his flocks. Now, your turn.” Zera stared at Crowley silently, and Crowley stared back. “Go on.”

“The pasture here in Thessaly happens to be particularly ambrosial if you must know.”

“Really. So you dragged me all the way up here, where there’s absolutely  _ no one around _ , to make sure I wasn’t going to interfere with your...” Crowley stooped and pulled at a straggly mountain plant, the roots coming away with a few small rocks tangled in them. Even Crowley could tell that it wasn’t exactly the  _ food of the gods. _ “...grass.” 

“What, are you doubting  _ me—  _ Who, exactly, did you say the princess was?”

“Princess Alcestis of Iolcus. She’s got so many men and women asking for her hand in marriage that poor King Pelias had to set a challen— hang on, don’t change the subject!”

“No, no— To yoke a boar and a lion together and drive the chariot to Iolcus, that’s the challenge, right? To win the hand of Alcestis.”

“Yes.”

“See, that’s why I’m here, too. For whatever reason, both our sides want us to do the same thing.”

“And you decided the best course of action would be to clamber around on the mountains and sample the alfalfa and give the poor shepherds— myself included— literal actual Hell. Don’t try and deny it! I’ve heard the other shepherds talking. They call you  _ Pan, _ you know, after their wild goat-man god.”

“Oh, good! I was hoping they’d seen me transform once or twice. The more senior shepherds bring me all sorts of things. Well, they leave offerings out in a cave near the mountains— they make the most wonderful wine and make sure to leave plenty of water to cut it with. Oh, and olives, and cheese, and bread! They’re quite creative, you know, these Greeks. You simply must try some.”

“Are you telling me, an angel, to take food from a heathen altar?” asked Crowley, already following.

“Well, it’s not like you’re stealing from Her, and you’re certainly not worshipping  _ me. _

— 

The cave Zera led Crowley too, in the form of a goat again, was surprisingly comfortable, for a cave. The ground was carved into stone seats cushioned with lichen and miraculously soft grass, with fanciful, curling ornamentations.

Zera hadn’t been exaggerating the quality of the locals’ offerings— besides the wine, there were meaty Amfissa olives, soft bread, figs, lightly dusted, just full to bursting, a small piece of honeycomb on a platter with a tiny silver knife with a dark wood handle, inlaid with wild sigils in silver, and a chunk of what seemed to be goat cheese, which really, was just in poor taste. 

They’d wasted no time getting completely, utterly sloshed, plastered, crocked, stoned, wasted, however you say it straight-up  _ drunk _ , drinking the wine Macedonian style, uncut with water. No need to worry about the side effects of overdrinking with a magic anti-hangover pill a snap of the fingers away. 

It had been several hours, and the meagre sunlight that filtered in through the mouth of the cave had gradually died, it’s corpse carted away and it’s place filled in by a miracle that gently lit the cave. Crowley thought that Zera had cursed the cave, and Zera thought Crowley had blessed it, and they may have both been right, or both wrong. It didn’t matter, either way.

“A goat’s sorta like— like a boar, yeah?” said Crowley, swirling the wine in his cup before downing the rest of it. 

“No, no, not— not at _all!” _exclaimed Zera, refilling the amphora and pouring it into Crowley’s cup with unsteady hands._  
_ “Both got horns, yeah?” He made vague motions at his head, nearly spilling his cup

“Boars have _tusks. _ Glorified _teeth, _at best.” Zera took another swig from the amphora, flashing his neck and nearly shattered it when he set it down heavily._ “_Boars are _pigs._ _Swine! _They’ll eat anything! Even other pigs, given the chance! Goats won’t do that! _Demons_ won’t do that!” 

Seeing Crowly’s face, he conceded. “Usually. But goats. Now goats are  _ wonderful _ animals! We’re ru— ruminen— we eat grass, got marvellous digestive systems. Cud, and whatnot. Well,” he said, taking the honeycomb platter and cutting a bit off in a motion so well practised that even drunk it was smooth and neat. “Some of us eat— olives, and figs with honey, I suppose. Really, are you sure you won’t try some?” 

Crowley could hear the wax crushing under the knife blade, the hexagonal crumpling, neat and imperfect, could see a drop of honey slowly slipping off Zera’s fingers, one heady strand sliding off skin and onto the cave floor. He swallowed thickly, suddenly fully aware of the fuzz in his head, the alcohol in his bloodstream, how close the demon was.

“I don’t think I’m — angels aren’t really  _ meant _ to eat.”

“Well, you’re certainly not meant t’ _ sleep, _ are you?” bleated Zera, holding out a chunk of honeycomb invitingly, leaning further into Crowley’s space. 

Crowley watched another bead of honey ooze onto the floor. “‘S  _ different. _ Flesh houses—”

“-bodies—”

“- _ flesh prisons  _ aren’t supposed to go too long without sleeping. Get all worn out and— and— floppy.”He waved his hand to emphasize his point.

“See, dear boy, that’s— that’s m’point! Bodies gotta  _ eat _ too. ‘Thou shalt eat and drink and be merry!’” Another globule of honey, nearly as clear as water, started leaking down, swaying madly as Zera swung his hand about.

“‘M pretty that’s a thing you’re  _ not  _ supposed to do.” 

Drop.

“You got the  _ drinking  _ part down, at any rate. Come on, just a bite. Honey’s leaking everywhere.” He waggled his hand enticingly, another drop of honey starting to fall. “I’ll even feed it to you so that you don’t get messy.”

It’s not the mess I mind, thought Crowley. I’ve gotten plenty messy before.

“But a goat’s close enough to a boar that we could, say, harness one to a chariot...”

“Just eat the damn honey! And leave  _ off _ about the goat-boar thing!” Zera sat back heavily into his stone chair, searching Crowley’s face, looking a little surprised at his own outburst. It wasn’t about the honey. It wasn’t ever about the honey. 

“I’m not tempting you.” With his clean hand, he took Crowley’s. “I promise. I’ll never do that, never— trick you into something that I thought would damn you.” Crowley sensed a tiny demonic miracle keeping the rest of the honey tucked in the wax emanating off Zera’s skin in waves.

He sat still, blinking hard, like somehow if he blinked fast enough the Right Thing to do would reveal itself. Zera’s ring was cool against Crowley’s skin. His thumb rubbed a slow reassuring circle into Crowley’s hand. He didn’t notice. Crowley did. “I’ll never do that. Not to you,” he said softly.

What was the promise of a demon worth? Could the sunbeam-warmth of Zera’s hand seep into Crowley, up through his bones and heat his wings? He imagined Uriel’s face when — if— Gabriel dug his hands into Crowley’s black wings and pulled them away, his face a mask of horror.

Did Falling feel like sinking through honey? Would Damnation clog his feathers, sticky and snaring, dragging and weighing down his feathers, moving slowly but surely downwards? When— if— he got to Hell, would he remember Zera’s face, would Zera remember his, proudly showing off the newly Fallen Archangel? 

Zera began to eat the honeycomb himself, perhaps tired of waiting.

And Crowley, perhaps drunk, perhaps stupid, perhaps tired too, of waiting, terrified, for what might happen, made a choice. His arm, moving almost on its own, latched around Zera’s wrist. 

“I’ll eat it,” he said. “I— I trust you.”

I’m too drunk for this, thought both of them, but neither one moved to miracle the alcohol away. 

Crowley abruptly released Zera’s wrist, and, not looking away from Crowley’s eyes, Zera took the knife and honeycomb, bruising the careful beeswax. He held up the honeycomb and Crowley obediently opened his mouth. 

The honey was sweet, almost too sweet, delicate and fussy, and nearly as sweet was the glide of skin across Crowley’s lips. He chewed slowly, the wax sticking to his teeth and dragging out the flavour, and watched Zera watching him.

He swallowed. “‘T’s good,” he said, and Zera smiled, almost sappily, except that was ridiculous. They were hereditary enemies, and he was drunk besides. It could mean nothing, Crowley’s arrangement with Heaven besides. 

“I’m glad,” said Zera, quietly. Crowley smiled back, clear and real, and then quickly dropped it, blinking and with a flick of his wrist almost identical knife appeared in his hand, with golden twisting lines curling line vines around the ivory handle, and the honeycomb out of Zera’s hand and into his. 

“Your turn,” he said, too loud in the distance between them.

Crowley had never cut honeycomb before, which was his excuse for why he dropped his eyes from Zera’s as he clumsily slid the knife along, what he would have told anyone who asked, though he would have had bigger worries if someone had got to that point. Zera’s eyes were too bright, too dark, like an undecided sea. Too much to bear on one set of intoxicated shoulders.

The edge of the blade breathed on the ball of his thumb. Too close for comfort, he thought, and I’m too drunk, and cut his thumb as he pulled the knife away. The knife clattered to the floor and the pieces of hoeycomb landed thickly, stained with golden blood. 

For some reason, Crowley felt like crying. It was just honeycomb, he thought. No use in getting teary. 

His thumb wept. It had been a deep cut, but Crowley hardly felt it.

Drop, drop, drop.

“Well,” said Zera with false cheer. “There’s still olives.” He snapped his fingersd and the honey-blood cleared, the knife atoms scattered, and Crowley’s skin knitted back together untidily. 

“Of course.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Still olives.” And the moment passed.

At least two refils of the amphora and all of the olives later, which Crowley had watched Zera eat, spitting the pits neatly onto the floor, the topic of how exactly to help Admetus— if he asked— win the hand of Alcestis had resurfaced.

“I won’t do it. It’s humiliating and frankly pulling a chariot is too much work. And I suppose  _ you’d  _ be riding in the chariot, not doing anything!” 

“Well, I can’t exactly turn into a lion, can I? I’d get a wolf or something to do it. That’s— that’s close enough to a lion, innit? I created wolves, you know.”

“I’m definit— I’m not going to pull a chariot with a  _ wolf! _ Nasty creatures, whether you created them or not. Sharp teeth n’ long faces. Almost worse than pigs. Don’t see why you couldn't have made— dogs or something. Dogs are nice. Helpful. Oh, don’t tell me those were  _ your _ invention too—” 

Crowley sat up abruptly, alcohol draining from his body and reappearing partially in the amphora and partially clouding the spring further back in the cave, which would be discovered by the Thessalonians sometime later, the apparently naturally occurring wine spring sure proof of the gods. 

“No— hang on!” 

“Oh, why’d you sober up?” groaned Zera.

“Didn’t mean too. “ He sat back down with a whump and a sigh. “I thought I remembered something. It’s gone now, never mind.”

“Well, that’s no fair. Now either I have to sober up, or you have to get drunk again. Here.” He took Crowley’s cup from on the floor, refilled it to the brim, spilling some in the process, and handed it back. “You know, there’s a lower demon who owes me a big favour. Has an actually boar-like form. I could pull him up—”

“Do we have to get involve another demon?” Crowley whined. “I don’t want to have to deal with demons. None of them are any fun. Not you.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Y’know, really  _ demonic  _ demons.” 

“Oh, thank you—!” said Zera, faux-indignant, tossing his head.

“Oh shush, you know what I mean.” Crowley slurped noisely from his goblet, heels propped up on the rough stone table to his left. “Oh, that is good. Anyway. Demons. Always expecting me to— smite ‘em or something. You know, there was this one demon back in— eh, I don’t know, Brazil, that one time I had to go there. Terrorizing the Pare. Nasty piece of work. Tried to eat some kids, climbed up in a tree. Nasty piece of work.” He took another noisy slurp. “Had to discor— kill him, sent him back to Hell in probably a dozen pieces. ‘S accident. What was his name? Anyinnie? Aun—” He snapped. “Aunyaina, that’s what it was!”

Zera groaned. “Oh, you just had to go and piss off the one demon I needed. Fine, fine, we’ll make it work.” He downed a glassful of wine. “Just need to be more drunk.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little bit late! What was supposed to be a short chapter ran away from me and is now shaping up to be at least two. Oops.  
Aunyaina is a myth from the Brazilian tribe of the Pare.  
I've never been drunk or witnessed enough drunk conversation to really get a sense of it, sorry. And I've also never eaten honeycomb, so all the descriptions are based on second-hand information.  
I've taken several liberties with the story of Admetus and Alecstis.  
Again, feel free to visit me on tumblr @gemstone-wings!  
I also fixed the formatting on the last chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my Reversed Good Omens AU, featuring Raphael, the Archangel of Lovers, Healing, and Shepherds, and Demon Zera, Goat of Eden. I'm super excited and have lots of ideas, already written and not! I’m planning to update each Wednesday, but we’ll see how it goes.  
Not Britpicked except by the British English option on Grammarly, and I’m a filthy American. Mostly based off show canon with a little of the book tossed in here and there.


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